


From the Shore

by natsubaki



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Memory Loss, Musical References, Quiet Sex, Romance, TKG Valentine Exchange, Tokyo Ghoul: re, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsubaki/pseuds/natsubaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although they are different, Tsukiyama knows they are the same. All that matters is that Kaneki has returned to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Written for counterghoul, for the Tokyo Ghoul Valentine Exchange on tumblr.

“I don’t know, I still think the book was slightly better.” Sasaki hurries into the entrance, stepping around Tsukiyama to brace a hand against the wall and slide his shoes off with his heels.

Tsukiyama rushes in after him, nearly bumping into his date in his eagerness to get inside and away from the blustery wind. He looks at Sasaki curiously as he shuts the door behind him and secures it. “ _Non_ , Kaneki-kun, I think the actress’s performance gave depth to the text—would you not agree?”

“Yes, but...it just seemed to lack nuance, you know? The way Murakami-sensei wrote it-”

Tsukiyama laughs, unwinding the scarf from around his neck and hanging it on the coat rack next to where Sasaki is standing. If there were one thing Tsukiyama thought Sasaki loved more than himself, it would be the written word. “But when you go to the theater, you’re no longer _reading_ the text,” he cuts in, pulling his fingers out of his leather gloves and stuffing them into his coat pockets. “It becomes a different kind of experience.”

Sasaki chews on his lip, a strange habit that Tsukiyama finds endearing, evident when the other becomes distracted while concentrating deeply. “I suppose you’re right,” Sasaki admits, moving his arms out to assist Tsukiyama as he helps him to remove his coat. Tsukiyama takes it and hangs it next to his scarf, his own coat joining it soon after. “I guess I just don’t have much of a reference point.”

“Had you never been to the theater before?” Tsukiyama asks in surprise, watching as Sasaki nervously scratches as the back of his neck.

“Ah, not to anything professional like this, no,” he grins sheepishly, his hand traveling around to cup his chin. “I was alone a lot, so it was easier to just make up the scenes from what I was reading in my head.”

One of Tsukiyama’s eyebrows raises unconsciously, and Sasaki himself seems a little confused by the memory, so Tsukiyama lets it slide and instead fixes a wide smile upon his face. “Then it must be up to me to start your lessons,” he teases, “a solemn duty to be your _éducateur_.”

Sasaki rolls his eyes, his own grin spreading across his lips. “Sure, as long as you’re treating. They don’t pay all that well at the CCG, you know.”

Why Kaneki refused to leave his position at that wretched institution after he recovered his memories, Tsukiyama still couldn’t understand. But it was Kaneki’s decision, and after finding him still alive, Tsukiyama wasn’t about to lose him again over something he had no say in. He was simply happy to have Kaneki back in his life—in any capacity—and as things currently stood between them, this was honestly the best possibility he could’ve hoped for.

“ _Certo_ ,” Tsukiyama says, pressing up against Sasaki and sliding an arm around his waist. He pulls him in closely, bending to nose at Sasaki’s neck, breathing in where the short white hairs brush against the other’s collar. “It would be my pleasure.”

Sasaki leans back into Tsukiyama’s hold, something Kaneki would rarely do. It’s a pleasant change, although sometimes Tsukiyama misses the thrill of danger that surrounded Kaneki when his hair had gone all white: the one he’d called his master, who had exuded a quiet, restrained power. Who could go from mild to murderous within seconds. This Kaneki...is certainly _dolce_ , but Tsukiyama had relished discovering the complexities of the former Kaneki’s flavor.

Tsukiyama realizes that he had been spacing out when his vision meets a pair of gray eyes. Sasaki stares at him silently, lightly returning his embrace. Tsukiyama smiles at him, leans in to press their lips together in a kiss, and Sasaki tilts his head, bringing a hand up to cup Tsukiyama’s cheek.

A sharp sting brings him to a halt. Sasaki is smiling at him even as his fingers pinch Tsukiyama’s cheek, tugging on it slightly. It’s utterly perplexing, and Tsukiyama doesn’t know what to do, so he just stands there, still and unbreathing, waiting.

The smile expands into a grin. Tsukiyama swears he sees black hovering at the edge of one of Sasaki’s eyes, but when he blinks, it looks clear and white.

“Getting a bit ahead of yourself there,” Sasaki teases, releasing Tsukiyama’s cheek and lightly soothing it with small strokes of his thumb. “How about some coffee first?” He turns and makes his way into Tsukiyama’s home as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Just a bit dumbfounded, Tsukiyama absently rubs at his cheek as he watches Sasaki stride away. Kaneki is Sasaki, but although he is Sasaki now, the Centipede still lurks within. The reminder sends a shiver down Tsukiyama’s spine, and his own grin spreads across his mouth as he follows.

“Make yourself at home, Kaneki-kun,” Tsukiyama says, although Sasaki has already done just that, “I’ll prepare the coffee shortly.”

Sasaki hums in agreement, meandering around Tsukiyama’s living room with his hands laced behind his back. He stops before Tsukiyama’s wall of bookshelves, and Tsukiyama has to bite back a bark of laughter.

So predictable, yet not: an enchanting paradox.

Making his way about the kitchen, Tsukiyama pulls out the canister of beans and the grinder, measuring out careful scoops and pouring them atop the mill’s burr. He fills his machine’s reservoir with water and turns it on, a low burble rising from the brass boiler. Tsukiyama watches Sasaki from the corner of his eyes as he turns the crank, observes as Sasaki scrutinizes the shelves although he’s done this countless times before.

Tapping the fine grind into the portafilter, Tsukiyama pauses and listens. The burble has risen in volume, a tiny stream of steam escaping from the top valve. He checks the pressure gauge, gives the lever a few pumps, and satisfied, locks the portafilter into place.

One steady, slow downward movement later, and the first cup is complete. Tsukiyama sniffs it and is pleased by its aroma. He looks up from his task—Sasaki has his head in a book, leaning heavily against a shelf—and then repeats the process.

“Kaneki-kun, the coffee is ready,” Tsukiyama calls from the kitchen, but Sasaki merely turns a page, and Tsukiyama sighs. He takes the two small cups in hand.

“Kaneki-kun,” he says from behind Sasaki’s shoulder. There is no response.

“‘You’ll live forever in your own private library,’ Sasaki-kun.”

Sasaki jumps, snapping the book shut as he whirls around. “Ah, sorry, I-” He returns the book to its position on the shelf and accepts the offered cup. “I didn’t hear you calling for me.”

Tsukiyama gives Sasaki a small smile before taking a sip from his own cup, feeling a little guilty. Everywhere else in the world, Kaneki is “Sasaki.” Being a person whose name had always been an integral component to his identity, Tsukiyama can’t imagine how hard it must still be for Sasaki to recognize and respond to his old name, but calling him anything else feels wrong. Sasaki, though, had told him that he didn’t mind when Tsukiyama had first slipped up—that he likes that it helps him feel more connected to his past.

He glances at the book’s spine: _Kafka on the Shore_ , the work they’d seen earlier that evening.

“I have Murakami-sensei’s entire collection, you know. You’re welcome to borrow any you like, of his or anything else on these shelves.”

“Thank you, I’d like that,” Sasaki replies, and a smile returns to his lips.

Running a finger over the tops of the books, Tsukiyama considers them in silence before he speaks. “His novels are always full of music. I think that’s why I like them so much.”

“Oh?” Sasaki begins, his eyes alert, “The selection is so eclectic, though.”

“You’re surprised?”

Tsukiyama gives a smirk that makes Sasaki flush, although the latter quickly recovers. “Then tell me, which song from the books is your favorite?”

Tsukiyama considers this, then knocks back his espresso in one gulp. “ _Permettez-moi_ ,” he motions Sasaki over toward the window with a hand. Pulling out the bench, Tsukiyama takes a seat at the piano, and waiting until after Sasaki nods, he begins to play.

The song begins light and lilting, with a slow-building melody that sounds somewhat nostalgic. “Beethoven’s ‘Archduke,’” Tsukiyama explains as his fingers traverse the keys, “It’s actually meant for a trio, so please forgive that I can only play for you the one part.” Spirited accents and delicate trills dramatically punctuate the tune, with cascading flourishes giving way to a lively crescendo.

Sometime during the movement, Sasaki materializes next to him, and the slight weight of his shoulder presses against Tsukiyama’s own. They sit in silence as Tsukiyama plays, and at times he catches Sasaki’s eyes falling closed, losing himself in the music. And then the song is over, and silence returns.

“We never had music in the house,” Sasaki says after some time.

“You remember?” Tsukiyama asks in astonishment.

“Mm, a little,” Sasaki mumbles, his eyebrows drawing together as he stares at the black and white keys. “I think most things have come back, but some memories are still hazy.” He looks at Tsukiyama and smiles. “But we also didn’t have music in the _old_ house,” he comments, and Tsukiyama knows he’s not talking about his childhood.

Lifting a finger, Sasaki hesitantly plunks it down on a key, the shaky reverberation sounding into the room. He leans upon Tsukiyama more heavily and buries his face against Tsukiyama’s shoulder. “Thank you. For back then.”

The words tighten in Tsukiyama’s chest.

“Even though things happened the way they did, I think it had to happen. I always knew in some way how you felt, but you were the only one who tried to stop me. I’m...just happy we were able to find each other again.”

Tsukiyama swallows the lump in his throat and removes his hands from the keys. “‘Even in the smallest events there’s no such thing as coincidence,’” he quotes, receiving a forehead nudge to his shoulder in return.

“I’m a little surprised at the upright,” Sasaki smirks as he looks up, “I would have thought you’d prefer a grand.” The troubled expression from before resurfaces. “I actually think I remember you playing for me before, but the memory’s fuzzy...”

“Kaneki-kun, I-” Tsukiyama begins, but his words are cut off when Sasaki presses a finger to his lips and stretches over to kiss him. Tsukiyama closes his eyes and angles his body towards Sasaki, drawing him closer. There’s a hand on Tsukiyama’s knee before the weight of it is replaced by Sasaki fully seating himself on Tsukiyama’s lap. He breaks away and places the palms of his hands flat against Tsukiyama’s chest, traveling up to smooth out Tsukiyama’s collar and down to straighten his tie. And then he leans in again, small moans tumbling from Sasaki’s mouth, and Tsukiyama slides his legs under to better their balance as he holds Sasaki’s hips tightly.

Hands snake behind his neck, comb and curl into fists in his hair. Tsukiyama presses back each time Sasaki surges forward, knocking over scores and loose music sheets, elbows hitting random keys and creating a dissonant melody. Although he’s experienced it innumerable times before, tasting Kaneki is paramount to an unparalleled religious experience. It’s as though his palate has unlocked every taste: something sweet and creamy, hints of bitterness with a savory finish. It creates a stirring in his gut that he pointedly ignores.

At one point, the bench tips backwards, and both seize up just enough to rebalance the seat back upon its four legs, limbs braced against and clutching at the instrument for support. A pregnant moment of silence is burst by open laughter.

It’s the most wondrous music to Tsukiyama’s ears. This time, it is he who leans in, and Sasaki closes his eyes automatically, deepens the kiss, before Tsukiyama is shoved abruptly.

“This probably isn’t the smartest place for this,” Sasaki says seriously, eyeing the mess scattered across the floor.

He meets Tsukiyama’s eyes. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

They laugh again as Sasaki climbs off from Tsukiyama’s lap. Sasaki is flushed and a little disheveled, and there’s black peeking out along the edges of his left eye. Tsukiyama can’t breathe for a moment, and he silently holds out a hand.

Sasaki accepts.

Hands linked, Tsukiyama guides Sasaki down the hallway, only turning on a small lamp near the bedroom's entrance. It softly illuminates the room with its glow.

Reclining on the bed, Sasaki grasps Tsukiyama’s tie and drags him forward, crushing their lips together. Tsukiyama’s mildly surprised that he doesn’t taste blood and arranges himself atop of Sasaki, pressing him into the mattress. As Tsukiyama works to undo the other’s buttons, Sasaki relaxes, allows the actions, and reaches up to help Tsukiyama with his own.

Tsukiyama slides a knee between Sasaki’s legs and is pleased to discover that he’s already starting to become hard. He leans in more closely, presses down with the top of his thigh, and is rewarded by a sharp gasp, Sasaki curling his fingers into Tsukiyama’s shirt at the shoulder blades. Rocking back slightly, Tsukiyama presses forward again, and Sasaki shudders in Tsukiyama’s arms. His mouth curves into a smile, dips down for another kiss.

He mouths along Sasaki’s neck, and the motion makes Sasaki break out into a tiny fit of giggles. Kaneki had never been so sensitive, and Tsukiyama secretly loves it, nips and licks and savors the taste of sweat and skin.

They undress each other slowly, peeling articles of clothing off one by one, taking their time, enjoying each other's company. Tsukiyama thinks back to all the times they’d been together before the Anteiku raid—before his entire life had been upended—and they had all been frantic and rushed encounters, worried about getting caught, about realizing what they would start to mean to each other should they be granted the time to think about what they were doing.

None of that matters now. They belong to each other now, and if Tsukiyama had to admit it, he had always belonged to Kaneki, ever since he stepped into Anteiku and became enraptured by Kaneki’s scent.

Being with Sasaki sometimes casts a feeling of immeasurable loss onto Tsukiyama, but he has to remind himself that no, they are the same. There is no loss, only gain. Their lives are just beginning.

Sasaki holds Tsukiyama close to him, encircling him with his arms as he spreads his legs to allow Tsukiyama to rest between them. He thrusts against Sasaki, rubbing their cocks together, and Sasaki whimpers out his name. Tsukiyama feels a sting underneath his eyes and knows that they’ve turned.

Tsukiyama kisses Sasaki tenderly, sucks on his bottom lip and curls his tongue around Sasaki’s. He runs a hand down Sasaki’s collarbone, ghosting across ribs, and grasps Sasaki’s cock. He strokes it slowly, reveling in the way Sasaki’s hips quiver, how he’s trying to control himself from bucking up.

“Tsukiyama...san,” Sasaki lets out between pants, beads of sweat forming at his brow. The veins along his left eye are dark branches blooming against the paleness of his skin. When he blinks, the iris shines blood red surrounded by pitch black.

Pulling himself up on his elbows, Sasaki turns over onto his front and pulls his knees up ever so slightly. Tsukiyama doesn’t have to be asked twice. Planting a kiss on the tip of Sasaki’s shoulder, he sits back on his heels and reaches over to the nightstand, retrieving a small jar of lubricant. The twisting of the lid sounds harsh in his ears, and Tsukiyama reaches in to scoop a small amount with two fingers. Massaging the small of Sasaki’s back with his clean hand, Tsukiyama gently pushes one finger in, feeling Sasaki’s body give around it. A shuddering breath escapes from Sasaki, but he otherwise stays still, and Tsukiyama takes that as permission to continue. He rubs the finger in upward motions, pushing it forward and backward until Sasaki is panting again, then pushes the second finger in. He stretches Sasaki slowly, until Sasaki opens to him, his thighs trembling and hips pushing back against his motions.

Using the remaining ointment to coat himself, Tsukiyama takes himself into his hand and guides himself in, rocking his hips gently as Sasaki’s body adjusts. The pressure is enough to make him feel lightheaded, and Tsukiyama has to pause once he’s completely inside. He lowers himself so that his chest is flush to Sasaki’s back, covers Sasaki’s hands with his own, and jerks his hips.

Sasaki sucks in a sharp breath and holds it, his stomach contracting. Tsukiyama can feel Sasaki’s pulse throbbing through his skin, and he places a kiss at the center of Sasaki’s back—cross between his shoulder blades and spine—filled with overwhelming joy that his world’s heart still beats, alive. Sasaki groans, deeply and loudly, encouraging Tsukiyama to continue. He can feel Sasaki’s ass pressing back against him, and giving in to instinct, his hips snap in a building rhythm.

They move together slowly, a cyclical give and pull that leaves Tsukiyama feeling bare. He kisses the parts of Sasaki’s face that he can reach: the corner of his mouth, the tip of his ear, the juncture of his neck. Sasaki’s scent is heady in his nose, filling his senses. He wonders if his own scent has the same effect. As an existence that had begun as a human, Kaneki’s nose had never been as strong as a ghoul’s.

Sasaki’s fingers flex against the mattress, extending and retracting as Tsukiyama sinks into him. His knuckles roll underneath Tsukiyama’s palms.

He is close, but he doesn’t want to untwine his hands from Sasaki’s, refusing to let go. Tsukiyama adjusts his angle, thrusts more fervently. Underneath him, Sasaki gasps raggedly, the smallest of cries escaping his throat. He presses his forehead into the bed as he comes, shaking, his knees giving out from under him.

Tsukiyama bears down upon him harder, bites down on flesh hard enough to just break the skin, and the rush of Kaneki’s blood assaults his senses to the point where he’s overloaded, and he comes with the taste of Kaneki in his mouth.

“ _Merveilleux_ ,” Tsukiyama murmurs, lapping at the already-closed wound.

“Who told you you could bite?” Sasaki mutters, but the expression on his face is more exasperated and exhausted than irritated.

“ _Pardon_ , _mon amour_ ,” Tsukiyama lilts, “you are too delicious to resist.”

Sasaki rolls his eyes and shifts underneath Tsukiyama. He doesn’t feel like moving, too content to stay joined like this, but realizing how uncomfortable his weight would be, Tsukiyama pulls out and carefully sidles over to lie on his back. Sasaki runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs away from his face, and shifts onto his side. Their arms are still outstretched, and Sasaki pulls the sheet up over his waist and plays with Tsukiyama’s upturned palm, walking fingers back and forth across its diameter.

They rest in a comfortable silence before Sasaki pillows his head on one elbow and looks up at Tsukiyama. “Did I ever tell you? I was once the lead actor in a play during grade school. So even though tonight had been my first time watching something like that, I know what it feels like to be on the stage.”

This is news. Tsukiyama thinks back to the shy and nervous black-haired man he first became acquainted to, years ago. He keeps quiet, hoping that Sasaki will continue.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sasaki says with a tiny laugh, “It doesn’t match at all, right?” His fingertips dot along the fleshy pads of Tsukiyama’s palm before they are diverted to the tips of Tsukiyama’s fingers. “It was easier to pretend to be someone else, though. To forget myself a little and take on a new life.”

The admission gives Tsukiyama pause, and Sasaki grows silent as he realizes the correlation.

“Is it easier being Sasaki?” Tsukiyama finally asks.

Sasaki chews at the edge of his lips, troubled for a moment before he meets Tsukiyama’s gaze. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like I’m acting. But I know that I was another person, once upon a time. I don’t want to forget that, but it’s hard to go back to a life I can only remember through experiences that don’t feel entirely mine.”

“‘Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart,’” Tsukiyama recites and almost instantly regrets it. But Sasaki only nods and threads his fingers into Tsukiyama’s, the touch thrumming electricity just beneath the surface.

“It’s okay if you forget yourself. I’ll always remember for you,” Tsukiyama insists, unable to restrain the sadness that has suddenly welled up within his gut. “Just please, don’t ever forget me again.”

Sasaki’s eyes are alight, and he squeezes Tsukiyama’s hand in his. His answer is enough to send Tsukiyama’s heart bursting from its cage within his chest.

“‘If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets.’”

**Author's Note:**

> All lines quoted are from Haruki Murakami's _Kafka on the Shore_.


End file.
